Wednesday, 23 April 2014

Two Suns

Not much was going on the night two suns went down.

The woman in the red dress washes dishes. She takes her time, yellow Marigolds half way up her arms. Her husband sits in the next room with his back to the window. Drinks from a green can of beer from time to time. A fat cat sleeps on a trampoline. So still it might be dead.

It's getting dark now. Curtains are drawn. Lights come on.

Trees make twisted shapes against the delicious, orange-black.

TVs are turned on.
The dishes are washed now.

The woman peels back the neoprene, pulls down a blind.
The husband takes another glug from the can.

Whatever passes for life happens behind closed curtains.

But what the morning will bring is another matter. 



  1. Good poem. "The Day the Sun Rose Twice," by Ferenc Szasz, is a fascinating account of the immediate aftermath of the first explosion of an atomic bomb... on the Jornada del Muerto (just south of the tiny town of Bingham, New Mexico, USA). God forbid anyone having to see two suns (nuclear) set at one time. I spoke with a few of the witnesses/survivors of that first blast in New Mexico when I was writing "The Children's Hair Turned White," a speculative play aimed at that not-so-distant detonation.

    1. God forbid, as you say. Another book to add to my reading list. Many thanks, Red.

  2. Thanks Susan. Always nice to hear from you.



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